


Ten Years Old

by eternaleponine



Series: From the Mouths of Babes [10]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Child Abuse, Foster Care, Gen, POV Second Person, allusions to torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 18:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16331069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: This is the piece that Lexa sent to Clarke inEven If We Can't Find Heaven.





	Ten Years Old

It hurts.

It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts.

They scream at you, spit flying in your face, words that quickly lose meaning because all you can think about is how much it hurts. 

They shove a picture into your view but you unfocus your eyes so you don't see it, because she told you this would happen and she told you how to beat it. 

_You can't escape with your whole body._

_You can only escape with your mind._

_You'll be all right._

_Your mind is strong._

_They think they're strong._

_Be stronger._

_Be stronger._

_Be. Stronger._

You focus your eyes again, right on their sweaty faces in yours. You lift your chin and refuse to speak.

That's one.

Another picture. Another name. More screaming. More pain. 

But you're not the one screaming. You swallow it down.

It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts. 

Sick rises in your throat and you swallow that too. 

The smell... you pretend it's not what you know it is. You pretend it's barbecue. 

It's all right. Your mind is strong.

_Be stronger._

That's two.

They think they can break you, but you won't be broken. You lift your chin and grit your teeth until you think they might crack, and sometimes you bare them and you try to twist it into a smile so they don't know that it's getting to you, that you want to tell them what they want to hear so that it stops and you can go back to the bed you were taken from. Go back to sleep.

On your right side, even though you usually sleep on your left. 

You think about your bed. You think about anything but this, now, here.

More spit in your face.

You spit back.

That's three.

You stay still, as still as you can. You breathe. 

_Just keep breathing. Through your mouth if you have to, but just keep breathing._

You try not to pant. You try not to let them see the way your breath hitches as tears rise in your eyes and you blink and blink and blink until they're gone again. 

That's four.

You bite your tongue and taste blood, and you swallow it and almost sick it up again.

_Be stronger._

That's five. 

You're dizzy from the pain and there are spots floating in your eyes and you focus on those spots, the big dark ones and the little shiny sparkles around the edges and you realize this must be what people are talking about when they say that someone is seeing stars. 

You focus on the spots and not on the picture and not on how it hurts

...it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts...

_Be stronger._

and not on the face in the picture in front of you, not on the stories that they're telling you that are your stories but all twisted up and messed around, like they didn't happen the way you remember them happening, like every good thing was a trick or a trap

You don't listen. 

_You'll be all right._

That's six.

You think they're getting tired. You think that this isn't fun for them anymore, and you know that she was right, like she's usually right except when she's wrong and you argue and you wrestle and sometimes she lets you win and sometimes you win for real, but it's just a game like this used to be a game for them except they realize that they're losing, and what will they do? What will happen if they lose and you win?

Nothing, maybe, or something. 

You don't know. 

She didn't say. 

You focus on her. 

It hurts.

_Be stronger._

That's seven.

They save her for last. Of course. You always save the best for last. 

You feel the heat closing in, and they don't even have to show you the picture. They don't even have to say her name. You don't give them the chance.

You just say what they want to hear. You give it all up – everything – and maybe they're disappointed or maybe they're glad that they didn't have to figure out what to do when someone else won their game. 

_Be stronger,_ she said. _UNLESS._

Unless. 

_Don't let them use me,_ she whispered, so close her lips brush your ear and it tickles. 

She makes you promise, your pinky hooked with hers, squeezing until your knuckles are white, that if they try to use her, that you'll say whatever you have to say to keep them from hurting you. Because she doesn't want to be the cause of anyone's pain, ever. She makes you promise.

_Be stronger. Unless._

And you do. 

And you keep that promise. 

Seven will be with you for the rest of your life because you would not give them up.

The eighth you will carry closest because you did.

And when it all comes crashing down, the only one that is not scarred into your skin is the one that you cling to, the one you try to keep hold of, because she doesn't ever want to be the cause of anyone's pain, ever, and if she goes one way and you go another, that will be a pain far less bearable than what you'd been put through days or weeks (time blurs and because you cannot see where they marked you you cannot measure time by the healing) ago. 

You hold on with all of your strength, until they pry your white-knuckled fingers from each other, breaking your grip and your promises both, and they put you in a car and take you away from the only home, the only family that you've ever known, and they tell you that you're safe now, that everything is going to be okay.

You know they're wrong.

But you don't say it. You don't say anything, because if you give up your secrets what was any of it for?

They poke and they prod you. They ask you questions that you don't, won't, can't answer. 

You say nothing. 

They think that they're strong.

You're stronger.

They hand you over to a woman you don't know and tell you that she's your mother now, and she takes you to a house and tells you that this is where you live, and shows you a room and says this is where you'll stay. 

There is another girl – too big to be little and too little to be big – and she doesn't look happy to see you, but the woman says that you're her responsibility and so she makes sure you know where things are kept and makes sure you go downstairs for meals and you give her a few words more than you give anyone else because she's stopped scowling all the time.

She prods you out into the sunlight, tells you to go talk to the girls across the street, that it will be good for you, and you think she's wrong.

She's not wrong.

And every day you wonder more and more about what's right and what's wrong and whether where you came from was a lie or whether this is, or both or neither. 

When she asks you, "Where'd you get those marks on your shoulder?" you shrug and tell her, "I dunno."

You know. 

Those marks have names. Seven names.

And one not. 

The one you gave up. 

You move on, but you don't forget. 

You never forget.

You think she would be happy. 

You think she _will_ be happy.

The one you will find again someday. 

You'll tell her she was right. Except when she was wrong.

You _can_ escape with your whole body.

You _can't_ escape with your mind.

But you're all right, because your mind is strong.

They thought they were strong.

You're stronger.

**Author's Note:**

> So there you have it. What happened to Lexa before she was taken and put in foster care, in her own words. 
> 
> The somewhat ironic thing is that this was one of the first things I wrote for this series, but I had to wait until I got to this point in the story before I revealed it. Only superficial edits were made from when it was originally written, way back in January 2017.


End file.
